All posts tagged: London

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A Revelation in Ikea

I’m ogling bedspreads at Ikea when it finally hits me: I’m staying. Staying here. In the US. In Philadelphia. Not moving back to London. It’s like a brick.  And not because it hurts but because it’s so solid, so certain, so “Duh!  Where have you been for the past three years?  You’re holding auditions for a freaking dance company tomorrow!” For the longest time I’ve kept my passport in my desk drawer, ready to go at a moment’s notice.  I still have my NHS card, my Oyster card, even the top up card for my mobile phone and the phone itself tucked into an old makeup bag for safe keeping with the remaining pounds I brought home from my last trip across the pond. In the three years that have passed since I completed my MA and moved back to the US, I haven’t bothered to close out my Barclay’s account or even to transfer funds.  (The damn thing was so difficult to open that I’ll probably never actually close it but I should probably …

Bad News

Well folks, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.  Not they’ve-decided-to-stop-producing-fair-trade-chocolate bad news, or even I’ve-decided-to-join-a-commune-and-go-off-the-grid bad news but bad news nonetheless. You might have noticed that I missed Monday’s post, and those of you who have been following my blog since the beginning of my Great Date Experiment will have noticed that my posts have become shorter (and less exciting) of late. There are several reasons for this, and as much as I’d like to blame The Wedding Date (boyfriends make rather convenient scapegoats, don’t they?) it’s not his fault—at least not entirely.  I’m writing for several online magazines these days and between all of my students, I’ve got thirteen tap routines to get finished up and polished in time for this year’s recitals. My co-producer and I also received some unexpected news last week: Remember that grant application you submitted months ago but never thought you’d actually get? Well, you got it.  We want you to produce a show at City Hall.  And we want it in exactly one month. With so many …

The Real Reason I Want(ed) to Go to Europe

You want to know the real reason I love to travel?  Sure, I’m into museums and history and discovering that my way of doing things isn’t the only way but really I like the girl I become when I travel: fearless, self-sufficient, confident, and—get this!—I almost never get lost when I’m somewhere else. I still get turned around on my way to New Jersey (which is bad, seeing as The Wedding Date lives in New Jersey) but give me a passport, a plane ticket and a map?  I’m fine. (Seriously.  I spent nearly two months on my own in Europe when I was seventeen and I only got lost once.) The new-and-improved me that suddenly springs to life when I’m abroad, however, is only half the story.  Because with it comes my new-and-improved ability to meet people and by “people,” I mean of course men. Even when I was seventeen and had a boyfriend, I met all sorts of men when I was abroad.  There was my flat mate in Sevilla, then the Polish student …

Crossing the Rubicon

Crossing The Rubicon: Navigating the Facebook Relationship Status

Today’s post comes courtesy of my former flat mate and partner in crime, Meghan.  Meghan and I lived together in London and we spent hours “researching” the male sex during our time abroad.  I’m really excited about her story; for starters, she’s a web writer and a social media consultant (i.e. a damn good writer) and her tales of relationship woes always crack me up.  In addition, the subject of today’s post is rather near and dear to my heart (for reasons I’ll explain tomorrow).  In the meantime, enjoy! This side of last year, I was 23 and I’d never been in a real relationship.  I’d never called anyone my boyfriend, and as I finally relocated back home to the east after three years away (two in London and one in Las Vegas), I didn’t see that changing any time soon. I spotted “Adam” across the floor at the cavernous Casbah night club in dear old Atlantic City. 6’4” and sporting a serious Jersey white boy swagger, I knew I was staring at a welcome …

Sunday Afternoon: Stranger Than Fiction

When I was living in London, I worked at a shop in Putney called Julian Graves.  (For all my American readers, Julian Graves is like Harry and David’s, only smaller and more chocolate-oriented.)  One evening, about an hour before close, a man came into the shop and bought a fruit bar.  He paid with a £20 note and spent the majority of the transaction flirting with me. I just smiled and counted his change.  Then he told me, “Don’t close the register.  I need change for the parking lot.” Now an experienced Front End Specialist would have ignored the man’s request, handed him his change and sent him merrily on his way, but that was before I worked at The Shop.  I didn’t know any better. The next few sec onds were a blur.  He took the £19 I handed him, then handed me a ten pound note and asked for change.  When I handed him two fives in return, he told me he’d given me a £20 and demanded that I give him the …

Have Coffee, Will Conference

Later this month, because I’m every bit at schizophrenic in my approach to professional development as I am in my approach to men, I’m taking some time “off” to deliver a paper at the annual conference of the Congress on Research in Dance. (And just in case that’s not geeky enough, the conference is co-sponsored by the Society for Ethnomusicology this year.  Also, rest assured: the dating talk will resume on Monday, especially as I’ll be seeing The Wedding Date in less than week [!] but in the meantime, I needed a quick break from all this talk of emotional polygamy.) I’m particularly excited about this conference, not because I have any great confidence in the paper I’m to deliver (it has yet to… materialize) but because three of my favorite professors are also presenting and they’ll be arriving from London in less than two weeks. I received an email from one asking if there was anything in particular I would like her to bring from the UK. Would I ever! The British Isles aren’t …

There’s a Reason I’m Ignoring You

It’s officially fall here in the City of Brotherly Love.  I know this because A) I’m back at my favorite coffee shop drinking my first non-iced mocha of the season, B) I’m wearing two shirts, a pair of fleece pants, a scarf and I’m still cold and C) I’ve received yet another Facebook friend request from one of my ex-boyfriends. It’s been almost five year since we broke up and aside from one rather ill-fated relapse over Memorial Day Weekend several years ago, we’ve not seen each other since. So why the annual Facebook message?  Well, we first met during the fall of my senior year.  We spent Thanksgiving together not once but twice and whenever the coffee shops start rolling out their pumpkin lattes, I can’t help but remember those lazy weekends when we’d go apple picking or hiking or shopping for Halloween costume accessories together. Fall was our time, and as such I’ll always think of him when autumn rolls around, just as I’ll always think of another of my ex-boyfriends over the …

The American Heiress

It was so much easier to get married in the nineteenth century.  I know this not because I majored in history as an undergraduate or because I spent the majority of my teen years writing sappy historical fiction but because I’ve just finished reading The American Heiress by Daisy Goodwin. That’s right: I’ve completed my “lit review” of everything ever written on the subject of online dating (what a depressing project that was) and have finally gone back to the sort of books one’s supposed to read during the summer vacation: books that offer an escape. Goodwin’s debut novel tells the story of the aptly-named Cora Cash, heir to a flour fortune, who suffers, as all teenage protagonists must, from the constraints of Victorian society and her mother’s constant meddling.  When it comes time for Cora to marry, she simply hops a boat to England (her father’s private yacht, to be exact), spends an afternoon horseback riding, and conveniently gets knocked unconscious in a forest that just so happens to belong to unmarried English duke. …